Cobbler’s child

I’m embarrassed to admit that the Wi-Fi connection at my local coffee shop has defeated me this week. I can connect to the Wi-Fi radio, but can’t get an IP address. This happens on both my phone and my laptop. It works fine for everyone else. It’s as if I have been personally banned somehow. Frustrating, absurd, and–for others at least–hilarious.

This shit is what I do for a living, so it’s like the cobbler’s children running barefoot, as my mother used to say.

To top it off, my damn butter tart isn’t set and dripped goo all over my hand.